Here I Am

by Rochelle Alers

  Brandt stared, hypnotized by the graceful, fluid movements of Ciara unbuttoning her shirt and letting it slide off her shoulders. He swallowed a groan. Swells of brown flesh above the cups of her white lace bra were an erotic turn-on. And not for the first time he cursed the fact that he couldn’t move to undress her.

  He wanted to reach around her back and unhook her bra to free her breasts. He wanted to take his time removing her shorts and panties, then run his tongue over every inch of her luscious body to discover if it tasted as delicious as she looked. The bra fell away, and he was stunned by the firm roundness of her breasts.

  Ciara felt the heat from her soon-to-be lover’s electric-blue gaze as she took an inordinate amount of time taking off her clothes. He was fully aroused and the area between her legs was wet and pulsing with a need she’d never experienced before. There was an advantage in remaining celibate, because after being denied something she’d craved for a long time, now the wait would be worth it.

  She couldn’t control her hands. They were trembling. It took two attempts before she was able to undo the button on her shorts and rid herself of the shorts and bikini panties in one smooth motion. Sleek and lithe as a cat, Ciara slid upward and straddled Brandt. They moaned in unison when flesh met flesh, her breasts flattening against his chest.

  Looping his arms around her body, Brandt closed his eyes and let his senses take over. Everything about Ciara seeped into him: the silky softness of her skin, the natural scent of her body. The strong beat of her heart kept tempo with his as she pressed closer. His hands moved lower, cupping her hips and pulling her even closer.

  Ciara buried her face against the thick column of Brandt’s neck, willing her hips not to move when his hardened flesh pulsed rhythmically against her buttocks. She wanted to enjoy the smell and feel of the man holding her to his heart. She wanted him to infiltrate her senses, erasing the memories of every man she’d known and not just the few she’d slept with. The strength in Brandt’s arms was so virile and protective; it had taken her more than half her life to come to the realization that it wasn’t love she sought from a man, but his protection.

  Brandt eased back, angled his head and brushed his mouth over Ciara’s. Deepening the kiss, he took total possession of her mouth, his tongue moving in and out and simulating making love to her. He lifted her effortlessly with one arm, his free hand guiding her down on his erection. There was a slight resistance; Brandt lifted his hips off the bed as Ciara came down to meet his rigid flesh.

  Bracing her feet on the mattress, her knees pressed against her chest, Ciara anchored her arms under Brandt’s massive shoulders. She wanted to close her eyes, but couldn’t as Brandt’s bore into hers. Passion had tightened the skin over his cheekbones, flared his nostrils and quickened his breathing.

  The pleasure Brandt found in Ciara’s body was so exquisite he feared it would be over much too quickly. She wanted sex—he wanted love. She didn’t want drama—and neither did he. She wanted right now—and he wanted now, tomorrow and more tomorrows. His hands circled her narrow waist, fingers tightening on the tender flesh as she moved up and down over his sex like a well-oiled piston.

  Heat, chills, waves of ecstasy overlapped and pulled Ciara down into an abyss of passion from which there was no escape. She closed her eyes, gasping when the first ripple of release gripped her.

  “Oh, no!” she gasped.

  “Let it go, baby.” Brandt felt the strong pulsing of her flesh squeezing his penis.

  Ciara did let go, orgasms gripping, overlapping and shaking her until she threw back her head and cried an awesome moan of erotic pleasure as Brandt’s breath came in long, surrendering gasps.

  Resting her cheek against his shoulder, she pressed a kiss to the damp, salty flesh. “Thank you.”

  Chest heaving, eyes closed, Brandt, smiled. “Thank you!”

  They lay together, joined and enjoying the sense of oneness. Ciara moaned. Her legs were cramping. “I have to get up.”

  “What’s the matter, babe?”

  “My calves are cramping.”

  Brandt released her and she rolled off his body. They lay side by side, holding hands. Ciara’s breathing deepened until she slept the sleep of a sated lover. This time there were no erotic images to disturb her peaceful slumber.

  Chapter 12

  “I’ll take it from here,” Brandt told the orderly who’d pushed his chair up the ramp to the entrance to the hospital.

  Automatic doors opened and the first thing he saw was the oversize poster resting on an easel. It was a photograph of him in uniform, hair falling to his shoulders, his helmet tucked under his left arm and a football under the right. A printed caption with the date, time and location had advertised his appearance. The photo was taken the day after he and his team had won the Super Bowl. Why, he mused, did it seem like a different place and lifetime?

  Brandt stared straight ahead, ignoring the whispers and stares of people milling around the hospital entrance. He maneuvered the chair across the expansive lobby to a bank of elevators, where Aziza Fleming-Wainwright waited. A bright smile split his face with her approach. If marriage agreed with his cousin, it suited Jordan’s wife even more. She’d cut her hair into a becoming pixie style. Spending three weeks in French Polynesia had darkened her complexion to a rich mahogany brown. A white-and-black-striped linen coatdress and black patent-leather pumps flattered her tall, slender figure.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he crooned, taking the hand she extended to him.

  Aziza leaned down to kiss her client’s cheek, then wiped at the smudge of color with her thumb. “You look fantastic,” he continued.

  “So do you. Jordan called just before you arrived. He said if you’re not doing anything tomorrow, we’ll stop by and visit.”

  Brandt smiled. “I’d love to have you guys over. If the weather holds, we can hang out on the roof.”

  “Have you spoken to my brother since the accident?”

  A beat passed as Brandt and Aziza looked at each other in what had become a stare-down. “No. In fact I haven’t spoken to any of the guys on the team.”

  “I’m not talking about the other guys, Brandt. I’m talking about Alex. You’re friends. Pick up the phone and let him know you’re okay.”

  “Okay, I’ll call him.”

  Standing straighter, Aziza glared down at Brandt. He was not just her client—now he was family. When her brother mentioned Brandt Wainwright was looking for a new agent before his old contract expired, she’d met with Brandt over dinner and before the evening ended she’d agreed to represent him. The result was a three-year deal for what she’d thought of as an obscene amount of money for tossing a football, her commission netting her close to seven figures.

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Brandt Wainwright.”

  “I said I’ll call him, Aziza Wainwright.”

  Aziza smiled. “Good. Now, let’s get you upstairs.”

  Reaching into her dress pocket, she took out a plastic ID badge marked “Visitor,” clipping it to the collar of Brandt’s black golf shirt. He looked splendidly fit sitting in the chair. His face was tanned and his cropped hair was growing out. She hoped the children would recognize him without the long hair.

  Punching the button for the elevator, Aziza pushed the chair into the car when the doors opened. They were the only passengers in the car that rose quickly and smoothly to the floor housing the pediatric wing.

  Brandt felt his heart rate kick into a higher gear when he heard childish voices raised in laughter coming from the end of the hallway. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d visit a hospital to entertain young children; it would be the first time he’d come and been able to identify with them.

  He maneuvered his chair into an atrium and within seconds the laughter evaporated like a drop of water on a hot griddle. Children lay in beds; others were in wheelchairs with tubes inserted in their noses and hands. Several others sat on love seats, chairs and chaises, staring at him as if he were an extraterr
estrial.

  The chin of one boy quivered as he choked back tears. “You’re not the Viking.” His voice was pregnant with disappointment as tears rolled down his face.

  Brandt swallowed the lump in his throat. These children were expecting to see a giant of a man with long hair, palming a football with one hand. They wanted to see their hero, but saw someone sitting in a wheelchair they didn’t recognize. His head came around, glaring when a photographer snapped several frames in rapid succession.

  Aziza sprang into action. She smiled at the stunned faces of the young patients. “When you asked for Brandt Wainwright to come to visit, you thought he would look like the photograph over in the corner.”

  “Why is he in a wheelchair?” wailed a young girl, also seated in a wheelchair.

  Brandt pushed his chair closer to her. “I’m in a chair because I can’t walk.”

  “Why not?” asked a young boy with a tube feeding oxygen into his nose.

  “I broke my legs.” Gasps followed his statement.

  “How?” asked another child.

  Brandt told the children and medical staff filling the room about the deer that had appeared in the road in front of his vehicle and how in his attempt to avoid hitting the animal he had crashed his SUV into a tree. Their rapt gazes didn’t waver when he told them wearing a seat belt had saved his life, otherwise he would’ve been ejected from the vehicle.

  Videotapes were activated and tape recorders turned on when the children conducted a press conference, asking Brandt questions about how he was rescued, his stay in the hospital, his rehabilitation and whether he missed playing football.

  Brandt answered their questions simply, intelligently, and then shocked the children when he asked them if they would sign his casts. Aziza, who’d had a supply of footballs delivered to the hospital, had him personally sign a ball and photographs for each child.

  Doctors, nurses and hospital staff floated in and out of the atrium, watching in awe as Brandt Wainwright entertained their young patients, recounting games when he’d had the breath knocked out of him after he was sacked. The children were served cups of ice cream with football-shaped cupcakes before nurses and aides came to escort them back to their rooms, Brandt giving each a high-five or handshake.

  He caught a brief glimpse of the man who’d caused Ciara so much emotional pain when he walked into the atrium to talk to a young girl with a dressing over her left ear. When the child turned her head Brandt saw that she was missing her right ear. Dr. Victor Seabrook may have met success as a brilliant plastic surgeon, but he was an abysmal failure when it came to women, Brandt thought.

  An approaching reporter shoved a tape recorder under his nose. “When do you think you’ll be able to return to playing football?”

  Brandt recognized the television sportscaster. “I will answer that question later after my recovery.” He motioned for the man to turn off the recorder. “I came here for the kids, not to give you an interview. Now please get out of my face.”

  Brandt returned to his apartment building emotionally exhausted from his first public appearance since the accident. Not only had he interacted with the children, but had lingered to sign countless autographs for hospital staff. The elevator doors opened and Ciara stood there, hands at her waist, waiting for him. Her smile spoke volumes—she was glad to see him.

  “I thought I was going to have to send out a search party,” she teased, closing the distance between them and kissing his forehead.

  He maneuvered into the entryway. “It lasted longer than I’d expected.”

  Ciara pointed to his casts. Most of the names were printed. “Who tagged you?”

  Resting his hands on the armrests, Brandt leaned over to look at the childish scrawls. “I let the kids sign my casts.”

  “I’m sorry I had to miss that.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said cryptically.

  “Why?”

  “I saw your ex. He’d come to check on a patient.”

  Slipping her hands into the back pockets of her cropped pants, Ciara pulled the fabric taut over her hips. When Brandt had suggested she not accompany him to the hospital, she’d wanted to tell him that he was no better than Victor, telling her what she should do and where he she could go. But after careful thought, Ciara realized Brandt wanted to protect her from a confrontation with Victor and/or gossip surrounding their former relationship.

  “It’s good I didn’t go with you.”

  Brandt gave her a tired smile. “Thank you for agreeing with me.” He spied the enormous bouquet on the pedestal table between the entryway and great room. “Who sent the flowers?”

  “They’re from your mother.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  Reaching into the pocket of her cotton blouse, Ciara pulled out a folded check, handing it to Brandt. “Your mother called me to let me know they were coming. She said they’re in appreciation for my taking care of you. If you look at the notation on the memo you’ll see: cooking duties. She doesn’t have to pay me for cooking.”

  Brandt unfolded the check, his eyebrows lifting a fraction when he saw the amount. “Either she pays you or someone else does it.”

  “I don’t mind cooking, Brandt.”

  He folded the check, giving it back to her. “Put it in the bank.”

  “What if I give it back to her?”

  “Please don’t do that. I’ll be the one who will have to deal with my mother when she has a meltdown because she feels you’ve insulted her.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  Brandt rolled his eyes upward. “I wish. Please, babe. Deposit the check and let it be.”

  “Okay. But tell her I’m not going accept another penny from her.” Ciara’s per diem salary was much more than she would’ve earned if her patient hadn’t been Brandt Wainwright.

  “You tell her yourself. I’m not getting caught up in something that has nothing to do with me. Jordan and his wife are coming over tomorrow night. I’d like you to plan a menu, then we can order from a local restaurant.”

  “What if we cook rather than order out?” Ciara suggested.

  “You’d rather cook?”

  “I like cooking, Brandt.” Not only did she enjoy cooking for herself, but she liked knowing exactly what ingredients were going into her body. “I’ll take inventory of the pantry and fridge before we come up with a menu. If there’s anything we’ll need, then it can be ordered and delivered tomorrow.”

  Brandt noticed Ciara had mentioned “we” several times. “We” meant they had become a couple. “What about an old-fashioned Southern barbecue, complete with ribs, fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw and baked beans?” she suggested.

  Reaching for the handles on the wheelchair, Ciara pushed Brandt into the living room and over to the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun was a large orange ball sinking lower in the sky. She massaged the muscles in his neck. He was tight, tense. Leaning closer, she detected the familiar odor of hand sanitizer.

  “I have a recipe for cornmeal-crusted oven-fried chicken that will rival chicken fried in a cast-iron skillet.”

  “It sounds good.”

  Ciara stared at the ash-blond strands covering Brandt’s head. Shortened, they reminded her of stalks of bleached wheat. She wasn’t familiar with the man the media had dubbed The Viking. The man she knew had gone from sullen, obstinate and surly to laughing, teasing and passionate.

  “Are you tired?” His head came up, their eyes meeting.

  “A little bit.”

  She turned his chair around. “You’re going to take a nap.”

  “Will you nap with me?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I won’t be able to sleep later if I go to bed now. Speaking of beds, I think you can now sleep in your own. I’ll call the medical equipment company and arrange to have the bed picked up.”

  “Where are you going to sleep if I move upstairs?” There was only one bedroom on the second floor.

  “Where do you w
ant me to sleep?” She’d answered his question with a question.

  He studied her face, feature by feature, committing it to memory. And that was all he would have once her assignment ended. Memories of her face and her passion. “I’d like you to move your things into my bedroom.”

  “Where will I sleep, Brandt?”

  A hint of a smile softened his firm mouth. “You will sleep with me, of course.”

  “Of course? Now that sounds just a little cocky.”

  “Cocky or confident?”

  “Egotistical,” Ciara insisted, pushing the chair to the elevator, “smug, brash—”

  “Can’t you cut me a little slack?” Brandt interrupted.

  Ciara maneuvered the chair into the elevator as Brandt punched the button for the second floor. “Why should I? You were nothing short of an ogre when I first arrived.”

  The doors opened and she pushed the chair out of the elevator and along the hallway leading to his apartment. He peered at her over his shoulder. “Sorry about that.”

  “Say it like you mean it, Brandt Wainwright.”

  “I don’t know how else to say it. Maybe I can show you.”

  Leaning down, Ciara pressed a kiss to his ear. “Later,” she whispered, nipping his lobe.

  While waiting for Brandt to return from his publicity appearance, Ciara had changed the linen on the California king bed in Brandt’s bedroom. The transition from sleeping in a hospital bed to a regular bed was certain to improve his mood and speed his recovery.

  Brandt stared at the stack of books on the bedside table—he’d planned to read them over the summer and fall. Reading provided him a respite from the frenetic pace of playing football. The season was short when compared to baseball and basketball, but it was much more physical because it was a contact sport. Being and staying in shape was critical, but even the most physically fit player’s career could end abruptly with a single tackle.